For a few minutes this morning, I seriously thought about making signs and marching in the “people with labels” parade. Some possibilities I considered:

• Proud of Our Internalized Homophobia
• Acronym Power!
• Transgendered Lesbian Caregivers To Supportive Straight People Living With Bad Credit

I figured I could find at least one or two people to march with. Maybe it’s best I skipped the whole thing, though. As originally planned, I didn’t even go to the damned parade and I still managed to be annoyed by it on three separate occasions this weekend.

On Saturday, I was at the library doing a bit of research for an upcoming project. My cubbyhole was apparently directly above “Thumping Disco-schlock Stage #3”. Concentration was not enhanced.

On Sunday, I had to change plans twice, the first casualty being some errands in the ‘burbs requiring my car. I was afraid to leave the house, fearing I’d probably have to park in Oakland when I returned. Apparently, the parade route has changed and my neighborhood has become the unoffical parking lot for all the idiots who were too stupid to walk or take transit to the parade.

So I decided to walk back to the library instead. It was closed, due to the very self-same parade. I muttered and bitched as I walked through the outskirts of the “festivities” and the several hundred thousand proud gay men (all of whom seemed to have purchased identical white tank tops for the occasion) and set out on one of my long walks instead.

All in all, not a bad day. My hike took me through the Tenderloin, the Western Addition, the Haight, and the Mission. I took great pictures. I remembered my sunblock this time. I even sweated a little. And I only got panhandled six times in four-plus hours.

Exosphere is today’s “link du jour”. You gotta love a site where the first sentence reads “This site has typos. Deal.”

Pride Weekend is almost upon us again, and I’m fishing for suggestions on where to go for the weekend.

By most accounts, the last weekend in June is San Francisco’s biggest tourist invasion of the year. I have nothing against tourists, mind you, but you can’t begin to imagine how upleasant it becomes around here during the influx. The bars are packed, parking’s a nightmare, and the rainbow-clad masses drive me into something resembling a homicidal rage.

Which is why it’s best for all concerned if I just get the hell out of town and skip the circiut parties and the five hour marathon of narrowly-defined labels and product marketing opportunities on Market Street. I’ll understand if no one misses me.

Now for a bit of good news: it turns out Tad’s Steaks on Powell Street will remain open in its current incarnation. A month or two back, it looked like this amazing piece of old San Francisco would be replaced by yet another foofy pasta joint. Word last night (upon dinner with Sarah, Dan, and Brad) is that the deal is off. Tad’s is safe, and we got free wine for caring.

I love Tad’s. Score one victory for the non-trendy, non-yuppie, non-fluffy, non-chain version of Sodom by the Bay. Herb Caen would be pleased.

As I close, let me rephrase my comments to stupid yuppie bitch in the Volvo who almost took out five pedestrians at Mission and Fremont this morning as she ran a red light (in case she didn’t hear it as I yelled at her): “You’re driving a car in heavy traffic. Get off the goddamned cell phone, you fucking idiot!”

Just color me tickled pink (or brown). There is once again Count Chocula in my world. Newcomers, of whom there seem to be quite a few this week, may not understand how much I LIVE for Count Chocula. Problem is, the stuff isn’t sold in California. No place in the whole damned state, it seems. I have to smuggle it in from Vegas, Minnesota, North Carolina, or wherever else I happen to be at the moment.

Until this week’s notice from Grant, that is, that boxes could be had for $1.79 at the local dented cans and overstock outlet. I often find odd store brand merchandise from southern institutions like Piggly Wiggly or Winn-Dixie there as well. I have four boxes of the chocolate and marshmallow concoction now. That should last me a while.

While I’m not too old to enjoy the therapeutic powers of Count Chocula, I am DEFINITELY too damned old to be bar hopping and slutting around in the middle of the day. My first trip to My Place on a Friday afternoon proved most illuminating. Most fun I’ve had in a dark bar on a sunny afternoon in quite some time. I usually hate bars in the afternoon; the idea sort of gives me the willies.

But there was the cutest bunch of boys there you ever did see. There was my guest Mickey, a digital friend from San Diego who was getting his first taste of Folsom Street sleaze. There was Scottie, an accommodating little nymphette from Santa Cruz. There was Brian (with whom I have a past which he seems to have forgotten). And there was Johnny from North Dakota and his boyfriend from Texas or wherever.

Somehow, my life is really only decadent when I have company. I’m sure Mickey came out of this thinking that things are always this sleazy and sexy for me, but I can’t remember the last time I came twice in one afternoon (with an audience no less).

Beginner’s luck, of course. If I went back next Friday afternoon, not a damned thing would happen. Maybe I just wanted to show off for my guest. Either way, I was beat afterwards. My nap later in the evening turned into a coma which lasted until this morning. And I only had three beers…

But now I have Count Chocula. All is well…